


a game of words and lace

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lingerie Kink, Post Therapy Session Sex, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 01:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13847562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Since that evening, she always carefully selects her lingerie on the day of their session. Just in case.





	a game of words and lace

Her day has barely begun, but Bedelia’s mind already reaches forward to her afternoon appointment. It should not, she knows it well, but she cannot stop her thoughts from venturing as she leaves her bathroom, a trail of wet footsteps behind her, and stands in front of her lingerie drawer. Her hands rest on the sash of her robe, fingers pulling at its edges almost restlessly, as her eyes fall on the selection in front of her. They are met with lace and satin, delicate pieces laid out neatly and with care, vivid shades of black, red, purple and white interchanging like an expressionist painting. Bedelia enjoys purchasing elegant lingerie for herself and her growing collection is impressive.

Her hand hovers over the drawer as she attempts to choose an item. The colours of the underwear are brighter than most tones in her wardrobe where professional attires are kept in neutral shades for the benefit of her position. But she relishes the vibrant hues of her undergarments, kept so close to her body, not privy to anyone but her, like a secret passion hidden deep within. Bedelia does not consider the unrevealed implications of this metaphor further, as her gaze lingers on a newly acquired lace set in a deep shade of crimson. She takes it out with a smile, pleased with her choice, one that would serve her purpose perfectly.

Her fingers finally undo the knot and she lets her robe fall off her shoulders, cool air whisking over suddenly exposed skin, then slips the lingerie on. She steps in front of the mirror, sun beams splitting against its frame, and allows herself a moment of vanity, appraising the way the lace compliments her body, intricate pattern accentuating her curves and mounds. The delicate design is almost see-through, but not quite, teasing, but not revealing. Bedelia smiles at her reflection; this might be her new favourite set, it looks as good as it did in the shop and she is delighted with the purchase, even if the service left much to be desired. When she was buying it, the sales assistant made an ill-fitting attempt of conversation, asking if she was getting this for _someone special_. Bedelia dismissed her without a word. She will not be returning to that boutique.

Always treating her affairs as almost contractual and not personal in nature, Bedelia had never dressed for lovers. Until now. But this is different. He is not her lover. He is her colleague and patient. It does not make it better, perhaps the opposite, but she still manages to convince herself it is _nothing_.

Still, her mind keeps wandering off, imagining the look on Hannibal’s face if he could see the red fabric. It brings another smile to her lips, mischievous, one that can be considered almost flirtatious in nature, if she ever allowed herself such frivolity. Now her mind begins to reminiscent and she recalls the intensity of Hannibal’s stare, his eyes tinted black with lust at the sight of her pearl satin bustier. To her surprise, she liked his adoring gaze. The image is engraved in her mind, just like his searing touch which feels imprinted on her skin, his fingers carefully tracing the lines of her body. She gazes at herself in the mirror, astonished she cannot see the fingertips marks.

Since that evening, she always carefully selects her lingerie on the day of their session. Just in case.

Her fingers make a final adjustment to the straps of the bra and Bedelia finally steps away from the mirror. She goes to her wardrobe and finishes dressing, a much quicker selection than before, putting on a grey skirt and a black blouse. The red lace disappears beneath silk and tweet, like a concealed weapon. It is just the part of the game, the part she instigated. It gives her an upper hand, she tells herself as she buttons up the blouse, it is _nothing more._

Her patient arrives at the appointed hour and their session proceeds as always. Hannibal sits in his usual chair, legs crossed, hands resting calmly, recounting the events of his week. Bedelia listens and prompts questions. The conversation appears to be an elaborate front while the real purpose of their meeting unfolds silently in the background. Hannibal recalls the details of refitting the string of his harpsichord with a practised ease, but his eyes look at her with a silent longing he cannot contain. Not that he has ever tried, even before her careless decision to further muddle the bounds of their relationship, one that only left him craving her more. But can one blur what did not exist in the first place? Bedelia does not wish to ponder that conclusion, clinging to thin lines like a safety net. As he continues, she feels like she is the pages of his diary and the secret kept within them all at once.

Not that her interest remains strictly professional, she reluctantly admits to herself as her own eyes enjoy the view in front of her. He wears a black suit today, perfect cut, stretching over his broad shoulders. His tie is red, _crimson red_ , an unexpected coincidence which she finds even more alluring. She thinks of her own red accessories, safely hidden. She is still unsure if he will see them; the last week’s cream satin remained unrevealed. It is all part of the game, part of the thrill.

His hands brush a non-existent speck of dust from his lap, his usual fidgety movement and suddenly her skin tingles, remembering the sensation of his touch. A pleasure so intense, like she had never experienced before. Bedelia swallows the thoughts and tries to focus on his words, but the shiver remains, and her breasts feel sensitive in the enclosure of the brassiere. Her nipples strain against the lace, more and more with each inhale she takes, only arousing her further. They feel so hard, she wonders why they haven’t pierced through the fabric yet. Surely, they must give her away, the material of her blouse is quite _thin_ , but she does not want to look down, afraid to draw further attention to herself.

Hannibal now narrates his disappointment with his fishmonger who failed to obtain shrimps of desired quality for his dinner engagement.

“I am sure your dinner was a success nonetheless,” she comments, appealing to Hannibal’s vanity and attempting to regain her professional composure.

“The guests seemed pleased,” he states with almost sincere modesty, “But I do not think it would satisfy a person of a higher taste,” an anticipated pause, “like yourself.” A poorly disguised invitation which he has uttered numerous times; Hannibal keeps his own game in play, his persistence as tenacious as the lust pouring from his eyes.

The corner of Bedelia’s mouth turn up in a tiny smile, a reward for his constant efforts.

“That is all the time we have today,” she counters his move and gets up from her chair, still acutely aware of her oversensitive skin, craving attention, “Red or white?”

“I think red will be perfect today, don’t you?” he smiles and tilts his head, looking at her almost playfully.

This time it is _too much_ of a coincidence and Bedelia leaves the room without a word. When she returns with two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, she finds Hannibal standing by the window, his sharp profile illuminated by the amber tones of the evening sun. Her eyes linger on the outline of his lips and Bedelia suppresses a wince. She is indulging herself again, she thinks.

Hannibal turns to accept his glass with a usual nod and a thank you. Bedelia watches as he slowly swirls the steam, allowing the wine to breathe and admiring the orange light seeping through the liquid, enhancing the deep ruby colour. He smiles approvingly before taking a sip.

Bedelia does not wait, her mind still unsettled, and empties half of her glass in one mouthful. The taste of cherries overpowers her senses and peppery notes tingle on her tongue. The wine is stronger than she expected, and she finds herself light-headed all too soon, but she welcomes the sensation, hoping the wine will wash away the disarray in her mind.

“An excellent vintage,” Hannibal comments, looking at her curiously and slowly savouring his drink.

“Yes, it is,” she is pleased her composure remains, even if it is only skin-deep. She is warmer now and the lace against her skin feels heated too, to the point of confinement, as if begging to be revealed.

Their weekly ritual proceeds in silence and Bedelia continues to observe her patient. She craves his nearness and it’s utterly perplexing. She pushes the notions aside again, with more determination than before, but it does nothing but fuels their persistence.

It would be a shame to waste such elegant lace.

With that conviction in mind, she takes another sip of her wine and then sets the glass aside. Hannibal’s eyes follow her with intense expectancy and he puts his own glass away at once, mirroring her gesture. As if he read her mind and knows what she will do next. The idea should make her uneasy, but it only excites her further.

Bedelia steps closer to him, so close she can smell the sandalwood and vetiver of his cologne and sense the heat radiating from his body, noticeable even through the thick fabric of his suit. Her hand reaches out, fingers slowly tracing the smooth silk of his tie. The material feels colder than expected, trapped between the warmth of their bodies. And they haven’t even touched yet.

All of the sudden, her fingers wrap around the knot and she pulls him forward. Their mouths meet in a kiss, lips coming together in a perfect unison. The wine tastes even more invigorating on his tongue, like the most unique vintage she has ever sampled. Each tender press of his lips against hers leaves her shivering, making her woozier than the alcohol. Hannibal surrenders himself completely to the moment and she inhales his sharp sighs. A moan builds within her as well, but she pulls away before it reaches her lips.

Hannibal’s mouth remains parted, his eyes dark with desire, the sight she remembered so well, the remnants of his collectedness hanging in shreds. She could end it right here and send him away with an unsatisfied yearning. A tempting notion, but the game should always be played to the end, she tells herself and presses on, even if her logic appears less solid as her body takes the lead.

She guides him to the sofa and he follows her without a word. A gentlest of touches on his shoulder make him sit down instantly, looking up at her in eager anticipation. But he stays silent as if afraid to ruin the moment with a misspoken word.

His sudden obedience is thrilling to Bedelia and she feels like a bow string, over-stretched and ready to snap. She lifts her skirt up and sits astride his thighs. Still, he does nothing, waiting for her permission. Bedelia inhales sharply; it is _exhilarating_. The lace against her skin feels burning red, befitting of its colour. And she cannot wait any longer. She takes his hand and places it on her chest, brushing the buttons of her blouse with his tips of his fingers. He takes her cue at once and begins to undo the buttons. His hands fall back to his lap when he reaches the end, awaiting further instructions. Bedelia bites her lower lip and shrugs the blouse off her shoulders, her secret play finally uncovered. Hannibal’s eyes become even wider, black beaming intensely, and he groans. It sounds primal and raw, like a hidden part of him coming alive because of her. This is the reaction she desired and so much more. Her nipples strain further against the fabric, begging to be-

“Touch me,” she whimpers.

His hands return to her body at once, but despite the fervent look on his face, his touch is tender and unhurried, fingers gently caressing her stomach, discovering and memorising. Her skin leaps to his every stroke, as if independent from her reason. It is more than mere lust; she feels as if butterflies have settled all over her body and are softly fluttering their wings. When he finally reaches her breasts, she leans forward in desperate need. He touches the undersides of her mounds through the lace before covering them with his palms and running his thumbs over her sensitive nipples. _Finally._ This time she cannot contain her moan and it resonates loudly against the office walls. He brushes them repeatedly and each press leaves her limp and dripping with want. One of his hands then moves to her leg, fingertips dancing up her thigh, in search of matching lace.

“Go on,” she urges him on as her composure crumbles away when his digits trace the now wet fabric.

With another low groan, he obediently pushes the material aside, fingers sliding within her soaked folds. Another moan escapes her lips and she feels her legs trembling with each trace, press and circle of his fingers. She slips towards ecstasy with an alarming rapidity. She might be in control of him, but she has lost her own.

“That is enough for now,” she manages to speak through the growing haze covering her mind. She can sense his reluctance, but he removes his hand, as commanded.

Bedelia looks down at Hannibal, the press of his erection against her leg makes it clear he wants her as much as she wants him. Suddenly she needs to make him look as undone as she feels. Her hands reach for his tie again and she unwraps it with haste before tossing it aside. Something akin to a satisfied grin passes through his lips, but Bedelia does not seem to notice. Her fingers make quick work of the buttons and she pulls his shirt open, fingers digging into his firm chest. The belt and zipper follow. Hannibal surrenders to her ministrations with a silent delight, as if relinquishing control to her was all he ever needed.

Soon her lingerie joins the tie, all splayed across the floor like first drawn blood. But there are no wounds, only the surging flow in their rapidly beating hearts. Bedelia guides him inside with ease and their bodies come together at last, with a craving which cannot be subdued any longer.

As the sounds of their mutual pleasure replace the usual chatter of conversation in the room, Bedelia considers a game well-played. There were _obstacles_ to overcome, but her self-command has prevailed. She feels content with herself as she rises and falls in a languid way, finally allowing her body to seek the hard-earned release. Her pleased gaze stays on the man being the means to her happy end. But as Hannibal’s hands shift from her hips to her back and he pulls her closer, his lips wrapping around her breast, another rush of electricity sparks up beneath her skin, rendering her mind blank again. She is too far gone now, unable to stop. The loud cry that leaves her lips gives an impression of belonging to someone else as Bedelia shudders at the force of her fulfilment, a star collapsing within her.

Unknown to Bedelia a new game has already started in the depths of their hearts, one without rules, one she cannot control. Neither of them can.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be just a headcanon at first, but the story grew and turned into this fic. I have already written one post therapy sex story, so I wanted to make sure they are not too similar. I would not want to repeat myself.  
> Pre-Europe romance is canon, we all know that. Feedback is love!


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